


But I Try

by cissyalice



Series: Winter In My Heart [4]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Finale, S3 AU, i think this one might cause a few less tears than usual, i was starting to feel sorry for all your hearts so, i'm hoping anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 18:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3778447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cissyalice/pseuds/cissyalice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Clarke.” Her greeting is guarded, her face even more so, and you struggle to make your features just as impassive. You inwardly curse the familiar jolt in your chest at the sound of your name falling from her lips.<br/>“Lexa.” You considered calling her commander just as you had the last time, to enforce a distance between you and maybe even hurt her, but that’s not why you came here.<br/>You need to at least try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But I Try

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the wait :(  
> But look I have finished a chapter and it has Lexa and Clarke in it. Talking. For real, there is actual talking between them in this one. Conversations being had. Issues possibly being solved. Maybe.  
> Anyway, hope you like :)

_“…I've fallen from grace_

_Took a blow to my face_

_I've loved and I've lost_

_I've loved and I've lost_

_Explosions...on the day you wake up_

_Needing somebody and you've learned_

_It's okay to be afraid_

_But it will never be the same_

_It will never be the same…”_

-   _Explosions by Ellie Goulding_

 

It’s somewhat shocking to see how far Tondc has come. You’ve made it a point to stay away since the missile-not that you or any of the sky people would be welcome by Indra anyway; Lexa might have given orders for you to be left alone unless proving a threat, but the relations between Grounders and Arkers are strained at best.

Bellamy told you Indra and Octavia accidentally crossed paths in the woods once and the meeting was less than encouraging. No words were said, and Octavia might as well have been air for the way the chief looked through her former second, before walking away, again.

Octavia was in a foul mood for days afterwards, she was told, snapping at people for the smallest of offences. Bellamy suspected that Indra’s silence hurt her more than recriminations ever could, and you have to agree. Anger, hate, disappointment: they could all be construed as coming from a place of care, a sign that Octavia once mattered enough to cause such emotions; but indifference?

Well, that erased any and all history between them, at least on Indra’s part.

Octavia, however, has been left with the tattered remains of her own, unable to shake them off quite so easily. For all her efforts to become the perfect grounder, and the progress, mastery of her emotions was not something she picked up. She looked up to Indra, even cared for her. You suspected the woman even started to fill some form of parental role that most of the hundred found themselves lacking, the one that Bellamy had always done his best to serve. The grounder wasn’t a mother exactly, but she seemed to be a guardian of sorts, a mentor, even a role model-and there were very few of those around worth mentioning these days.

It must have hurt, to lose that.

And you feel for her, you do. But your heart aches less than it once would have; your thoughts consider her only briefly. You just can’t find it in you to _care_ like before. And there is a quiet voice inside that snaps at her to ‘get over it’, grows louder every day.

It scares you.

There are times you wither under Jasper’s glare and other’s you want to snarl.        

_You’ve all lost things._

And in recent months you’ve found yourself falling backwards and forwards over a line between caring too much and not caring at all.

(You can’t deny that there is a certain relief in apathy)

Lexa would be proud.

_‘We would not be very good leaders, Clarke, if we didn’t care.’_

Or maybe not.

 

Echo’s village, Kerson, is respectful and even helpful in their interactions but even they lack warmth. They are grateful to the skaikru for their help in freeing their people; are in awe of their victory even; but they are also suspicious, possibly fearful.

They might not be wrong to be so.

From what you’ve seen during your visits to Camp Jaha and Mount Weather, there is a lingering resentment towards the Grounders, accompanied by fear and distrust. In some this is stronger than others, your mother being one such case. This last part is what makes you most uneasy. Many are angry, but Abby is chancellor and therefore has the power to _make_ something of her anger, if she chooses. Your mother wasn’t fond of the grounders to begin with, and now there’s betrayal to add to the mix. You worry that she might make relations worse, even ignite another war (they’re oh so easy to start).

But so far things are holding steady and Echo’s aid since the Mountain has helped to ease some of your people’s more vicious emotions.

Still, it’s a tenuous line to walk, and another thing you will have to discuss with Lexa,

At any rate, you haven’t borne witness to the rebuilding of Tondc and the sight of the new huts and stables stagger you for a moment. You stand there, unable to entirely process the progress before your eyes. It is nothing if not impressive.

There are children running, playing, weaving through the passages between houses and tents; you swallow at the sight of them. These are the ones that survived. The ones you condemned to die but escaped. They are the exception, for there are so many that you did. You don’t know the exact number, you did not get the chance to sift through the bodies after the missile, to stare into each face as you had the Mountain Men’s. You wonder how many of the dead that night were children, how many were friends to those you see today?

Lexa would know. Maybe. You’re not sure you have it in you to ask.

Looking away from the village, you squeeze your eyes shut, and try to dispel the image of tiny broken bodies, buried beneath mountains of rubble.

That’s not why you came.

Shaking your head, you force yourself forward, doing your best to block out the sounds of squeals and childish laughter. As you draw closer, you gain the attention of more and more of the villagers-though you don’t doubt that you were spotted by guards, hidden from view, the moment you came within a hundred yards-and more than a few stop what they’re doing to study you. Their gazes are curious but full of suspicion, though you catch an underlying of respect in almost all.

It’s when you reach the first tent-and, really, you’re surprised you’ve made it this far unopposed, that weapons have not already been drawn-that a warrior steps out and blocks your path.

“Hod op. Oso nou teik yo in hir.”  


You raise your chin defiantly but say nothing. Your knowledge of Trigedasleng is still rather pitiful, mostly because language learning has not been high up on your list of things to do. It would have been smart, considering that you would all be coexisting with these people for the rest of your lives, barring any wars. You could have asked Lincoln or Octavia. But you didn’t.

You couldn’t bring yourself to.

Lexa offered to give you lessons once, for after the war was over. You were even looking forward to it-spending time with her, being instructed on something other than leadership, and its sacrifices.

“Take me to Indra,” you say, working to keep your voice strong, firm. You know he can understand you. He’s a warrior, and they teach their warriors English. The fact that he chose to speak to you in Trigedasleng, despite no doubt knowing who you are, was no more than intimidation technique, and you refuse to let it pay off.

He grunts, eyes you up and down, before turning and stalking off. Hesitating briefly, you follow.

The sounds of the children stalk you, growing closer and louder the further you entrench on the village.

“Maunripa! Keryon kom Wamplei! Keryon kom Wamplei!”  


One runs up behind you and tugs at your hand, babbling unintelligibly in Trigedasleng, and you step back, startled. The little girl grins, continuing on rapidly despite your silence. The warrior you’re following sniffs and continues on without you, and you look helplessly back and forth between the two.

You’re considering calling for help-ridiculous, Clarke of the Sky People, Defeater of the Mountain, rendered helpless by a harmless child?-when a man rushes out from behind a hut, grabs the girl by the arm and tugs her away. She’s still smiling back at you as they depart, the man who you assume to be her father casting you a glare full of warning.

It’s . . .

Honestly you have no idea what to make of it.

And you don’t have the time either, because when you glance over in the direction of your entourage, he’s already ten metres ahead of you and not looking any more ready to stop and wait. You spare the child and her father one more confused look before racing after him.

The warrior gives no acknowledgment when you catch up, only leads you on in silence to one particular hut. As you approach, you are met by a familiar sturdy form coming out of the entrance-Indra.

She does not look happy to see you.

“I’m here to see the commander,” you announce, working to keep your voice steady, firm. You’re confused, overwhelmed and more than a little nervous about what’s to come, but you’ll be damned if you let _Indra_ know it.

She stares at you for a moment, mouth sinking further and further into displeasure, but surprisingly offers no protest. After a few words in Trigedasleng to the warrior who brought you, she marches off, jerking her head at you to follow.

Admittedly, your first few steps are more of a stumble.

Tents of various sizes are intermingled throughout the huts and Indra leads you to the largest one, two huts over. Two guards stand watch outside and, though they eye you distrustfully, they offer no resistance when Indra raises the flap of the tent and stalks inside, nor when you follow closely behind.

The tent’s smaller in size and less lavish than the one Lexa was occupying during your trip to Echo’s Village, closer in resemblance to the tent you shared in the last days before Mount Weather. Recollections of both make you uneasy and, biting your lip, you stop your hasty scan of the interior and force yourself to focus on what you came for.

The commander is seated on her trademark thrown, or at least a replica-all this time, and you still don’t know if it’s made of wood or bone-stiff backed and unapproachable as ever. Her face is free of paint but she’s otherwise dressed in full commander regalia-cloak, red sash, sword masquerading as a staff-and it is a startling contrast to the barely clothed state you found her in last time. It brings back memories of gentle kisses, and a face washed with blood as it turns away from you.

You swallow and her gaze finds you. 

In that first second, her mask breaks and you catch disbelief and maybe even fear but it’s up again so quickly you can’t be sure. Lexa purses her lips and snaps her head in Indra’s direction. “Leave us.”

Her general looks reluctant to do this-most likely under the impression that you’ve shown up with a dagger down your sleeve and the aims to use it (that was _one_ time)-but she cannot disobey her commander. Disgruntled, she leaves, a little more stomp to her feet than necessary. You suspect she won’t go far, that she’ll keep an ear to the tent, ready to act at the slightest sound of disturbance, regardless of the two capable guards posted outside.

Her suspicion is wasted, you have no intention to harm her leader-you ignore the countless nightmares you’ve suffered, visions where you’ve plunged a knife into Lexa’s chest and sated yourself on the feel of her blood gushing out, the sight of her eyes clouding over; you’re not ready to admit that those dreams could belong to you.

“Clarke.” Her greeting is guarded, her face even more so, and you struggle to make your features just as impassive. You inwardly curse the familiar jolt in your chest at the sound of your name falling from her lips.

“Lexa.” You considered calling her commander just as you had the last time, to enforce a distance between you and maybe even hurt her, but that’s not why you came here.

You need to at least _try_.   


She blinks at the use of her name but otherwise gives nothing away.

“Why have you come here, Clarke?”

The answer to that is simple-

_you_

-but you cannot bring yourself to give it. Because it’s not simple, not really. And it is full of things you cannot confess, not yet.

A minute passes, filled with careful stares and ordered breathing, before Lexa rises. She departs her throne and makes her way down the steps, lowering herself to your level. The significance of this seemingly meaningless act is not lost on you-she is relinquishing what little power she still holds in your presence, placing it aside for your sake, and, in doing so, giving rise to her own vulnerability. You are at once grateful and furious for this.

This evidence that she cares? It warms you and infuriates you. What right does she have to care for you anymore? And you hate that you can’t deny that she does, that you even find comfort in the fact. A part of you wishes that you couldn’t see through her so well, that you don’t know her and understand her as you do, enough to see the hidden intentions behind every action. 

You want her to be a stranger, the unapproachable woman you first met back when your hands were so much cleaner and your heart less ravaged. You want her to be the mystery, the one she was before you took the time to figure her out.

You want to not care in return.

But that’s impossible.

You came here because you _do_.

Unable to meet her gaze any longer, you turn away and meander towards the table on the near side, more for a distraction than anything else. There are maps sprawled across its surface and a plate of food, untouched. You steal a grape without asking-because fuck they’re good and you haven’t had any since the last time you were in Tondc, and OK maybe it’s also to try and get a rise out of Lexa but whatever. You pop it in your mouth, taking a peek at the other woman.

To your disappointment, she seems more amused than irritated, if the upturn to her mouth breaking through her mask is anything to go by.

It’s not entirely unpleasant to see.

You turn back and pluck another one from the plate.

“I assume you did not come all this way just to eat my grapes, Clarke of the Sky People.”

The voice comes from beside you, alarmingly close, and you feel a certain amount of pride when you manage not to flinch. She’s right beside you, gazing down at the table, her shoulder only a few inches from yours. You clench your fingers around the edge of the wooden surface.

In some of the movies that survived earth, there were cats with bells on their neck, placed there so the birds would hear them coming and survive another day.

Maybe someone should consider giving Lexa a bell.

Now that she’s here, this close, you can’t help but think about the last time the two of you were in front of a table. Your stomach twists at the memory, the grapes fighting to make a reappearance. You can’t get away from it, the knowledge that, if didn’t notice that flinch, you would have-

And she would have allowed it-her kisses and pliant body beneath yours assured that much. But not because she wanted it, not because she was ready; but because she was drowning in blood just like you, struggling to wade through the guilt and despair that engulfed her. She too reached for the surface in an attempt to find some form of absolution. She too would swallow the water into her lungs for the possibility of atonement.

She would let herself drown if that was the punishment offered.

And you understand her all too much.

She will never be a stranger.

You swallow, backing away from the table and turning to face her. She is studying you intently and you try to keep your expression blank, try to keep the shame from breaking through, but you don’t know if you succeed. You have always read each other too well.

She is not entirely at ease either, though. Despite her ability to try for conversation in opposition to your silence, her body is taut, stiff. The first time you killed an animal, it was a rabbit and you were hunting with Finn. Some of the hundred had started setting up traps-albeit, not very good ones. It was their turn to go out and check whether their efforts had proved at all fruitful.

After three disappointing discoveries, the two of you found the rabbit tangled up in the fourth trap. Its paw snared, bleeding, it struggled wildly for escape. When you approached with your knife drawn, you saw the white of its eyes, glazed in terror, as it clawed to get away.

You slit its throat, and watched the pulse of its blood as it drained out.

Your second kill on earth. The first had been a boy that bared himself to your blade.

What you saw in that rabbit’s eyes, though, it’s not so different from what you recognize in Lexa now, and your fist clenches at your side. You realize what she probably knew from the moment you stepped in here, that she did not need to relinquish power because you already had it all. You have an arsenal of words and actions at your disposal with which to hurt her, and she knows it.

But she does not struggle for escape like the rabbit, and in that she is more like the boy.

For a moment, the urge to vomit becomes almost too much. 

You never wanted her to fear you.  

You bite your lip, trying to reign in the downward spiral of your thoughts. No.

_That’s not why you came here._

That’s not why you came here.

“Are you busy?” you ask, ensuring that none of the inner conflict makes its way out to your face.

She regards you for a moment, considering, no doubt trying to figure out what your intentions are. Maybe she too thinks you have come here for blood. The idea makes you colder than you thought it would.

“No.”

Though you suspect it’s a bold faced lie. You have a feeling the commander is _always_ busy, that she is never at rest from demands of her people, but you do not call her out.

You pause, rethinking for a moment whether or not you really want to do this, whether you’re _ready_ for this. But you’ve done enough waiting, enough hesitating. The time has come to act.

“I need to show you something.”

Lexa studies you, still searching. You’re not sure what she finds but, after a moment, she gives a short nod of consent.

You exhale, deflating under the unexpected hail of relief.

 

The minute you reveal that your plans will take you outside the safety of Tondc, Lexa insists on a guard. It’s a matter she remains uncompromising on despite your many protests. They disappear into the cover of the trees once you set out, soundless, invisible, but you resent their presence nonetheless. You don’t want anyone else to be privy to this, to your interactions with Lexa, but even moreso to what you’re about to show her. It’s almost enough to make you turn back, cancel the whole thing, but you grit your teeth and power onwards.

You’ve come this far.

“Honestly, Lexa, if I could survive out here on my own for months, I’m sure that two of us could make it one day,” you gripe, nudging your heels into your horse’s side to speed it up a little. Horses-another thing Lexa insisted on when you said the trip would likely take you the rest of day and some of the night. You were less opposed to this stipulation, though. Especially since your legs are already aching from your walk to Tondc.

However, you seem to have been saddled with the laziest horse one could find. It’s only been thirty minutes and already the mare’s stopped nine times to graze, and twice more for seemingly no other reason than to rest her eyes and smell the roses (not that there are any roses here). You want to say that this development was unintentional on Lexa’s part but the subtle quirk to her lips every time this happens has you suspicious.

Even when the horse doesn’t stop dead, she’s content to lag more than a few metres behind Lexa’s without some heavy prodding.

The horse Lexa gave during the war with Mount Weather hadn’t been this much trouble.

You clench your jaw, that horse was another thing sacrificed when the missile hit Tondc.  

Anya’s horse.

You still don’t know why Lexa gave him to you.

A glance over at Lexa for her response finds her avoiding your gaze, mouth pursed as she rubs the neck of her own horse absentmindedly. You frown and attempt to puzzle her out, regretting it the moment you do.

“ _No_ ,” you say in disbelief and her gaze snaps to yours. What you see there is all the evidence you need, There is admittance and maybe even a little bit of embarrassment if the red tinge to her ears is anything to go on, but she also doesn’t have the decency to look guilty.

Your hands tighten around the reins and it takes everything in you not to snap. “How long?”

“Since the Mountain was defeated.”

And it feels like a betrayal. You didn’t realize there was any trust left for her to betray.

“How dare you?” It’s not just that she was the one person you thought knew enough to never doubt your abilities, but that she did so behind your back. She kept it from you all this time, neglecting to tell you even when you lay side by side in bed, giving her a certain trust, despite your deepest reservations.

She clenches her jaw but refuses to look away. “The ground is dangerous, Clarke. Especially for one on their own,” she insists. “You needed protection.”  

“I did _not_ need protection,” you snap. “Especially not _yours_. I can handle myself. I think I’ve more than proved that already.” It’s only your anger that keeps you from cringing at the many _ways_ in which you’ve proved this.

You glance away, too furious to look at her anymore. You wonder if it’s too late to cancel this whole thing, to turn back and forget you ever saw Lexa, ever even met her. You could walk away and put all this to bed. All this hate, all this betrayal, all this hurt-

But you can’t walk away. If you’ve learnt anything in the past months, it’s that.

You can’t walk away from her.

There is a pause as you both move on in silence and you wonder whether you can last the rest of the trip this way. You’re not so sure that Lexa will reach their destination alive if not.

“27.”

You frown and turn to her in confusion. “What?”

Her face is expressionless as she stares ahead. “27. The exact number of threats to your life my warriors have eliminated in the past 14 months.”

The scowl on your face turns from confusion, to surprise, to embarrassment, before finally settling on annoyance-at yourself for your stupidity and at Lexa for being right. “Oh.”

She sighs and turns to meet your gaze. “From birth, we learn how to survive this world and still we struggle. You’ve been here for little more than a year. Though your triumphs and abilities are commendable, that does not make up for the years of training and knowledge you missed.” 

You can’t deny that she has a point and you sigh, giving into defeat as you glance down at your hands, forcing your grip to ease up on the reins. She’s right. With all the struggles and things you’ve survived, you feel ancient, and more than capable of handling anything the ground has to offer. But you’re not, not entirely. Compared to the Grounders, you’re still in some ways a child, floundering around and hoping they don’t accidentally burn themselves on something-you remember with some bitterness the days it took you to just to find decent shelter. And you only have the barest inkling of the dangers this world has to offer, of what you might face-and you can’t say you’re prepared for the next giant gorilla that comes along.

But your heels dig in every time someone starts to suggest you’re not capable of something. Months spent trying to convince the adults of the Ark, especially your mum-and she’s still not quite there yet-that you can take care of yourself, and that you’re not a child anymore have worn your nerves thin. It’s the same for the rest of the delinquents, even Bellamy who was actually an adult when he first landed here. They look down on you, even after all you’ve done, and all the adults have _failed_ to do, you are still seen as less in their eyes, inferior. The attitude is changing, slowly-Kane was pretty quick to hop on the bandwagon-but it’s not enough.

They don’t trust you to look after yourselves, but God knows you’ll be the ones charged with saving the day the next time shit goes down.

That’s not where Lexa’s coming from, though. Her doubt in your abilities comes not from your age but rather from your lack of experience, and that you can understand. Besides, you’re pretty sure that out of the two of you, it’s your mother who Lexa views as the actual child-and at times you struggle to disagree. 

Despite this though, the dying embers of anger and hurt flicker in your chest and you can’t help but turn on her, gritting your teeth to keep back the vitriol that first comes to mind. “You should have told me.”

“Perhaps.” She clenches her jaw and adds nothing further, and you find her silence somewhat infuriating. You remember, though, that Lexa says more without words, so you begin to study her. She’s avoiding your gaze, and you suspect it’s to hide the appearance of vulnerability. Her knuckles are white and her body straighter than usual, taught with tension. After a moment, she swallows-

and you get it.

You know why she kept it a secret, why she refused to tell you even when you came face to face again after months of being a part. Your bodyguards, her tracking of your movements, they’re a sign of her care for you, a care that is safest kept to herself-for her own wellbeing _and_ the good of her people. Getting Lexa to admit that she cares about anything is a struggle at the best of times but this is different. This would be her presenting you with a weakness, the evidence of it, and doing so when you were likely in a mindset to use it against her. You can’t even say her wariness was misguided because it wasn’t.

In the end, you needed no such proof to know that Lexa cared for you-you’d already seen enough-and you used that care as a weapon against her the first chance you got. You kissed her, wanting it to mean nothing to you and everything to her. You nearly fucked her in the desire to prove that you could, that she would let you because you had that power over her. You wanted to leave her afterwards, leave her naked and trembling and ashamed, never to return. You wanted her to know that she had been right all along and that her love for you _was_ weakness, and hate herself for ever giving in to it.

Love?

No. Not love. You didn’t mean love.

Lexa cares for you, feels for you. But she doesn’t love you.

She can’t love you.

You’re not ready for her to love you.

She doesn’t deserve to love you.

You shake your head, unclench your hands when you realize they’ve tightened again.

You don’t deserve to be loved _by_ her.

         

 

In the few weeks after Mount Weather, you became a gravedigger-not the kind that grabs a shovel to pitch in when yet another of their ilk dies; but the kind that existed before, on earth; the kind whose lives were devoted to the dead.

You spent hours, most of them in a state delirium from lack of food and dehydration, burying your dead (all 346 of them). You fashioned them a bed in the ground they’d yearned so much for in life. But like in the Mountain, they were still trapped beneath the dirt, hidden from sky; and there they’d be left to decay, bones breaking away to dust until they disappeared into the earth forever.

You at least tried to make them comfortable.

It didn’t redeem you, didn’t change the fact that, in your first two months on earth, you’d managed to exterminate an entire population. It didn’t bring back the dead, or erase their suffering in the moments before death.

It did _nothing_.

But you did it anyway, you had to. Nothing was all you had to give.

You put Maya and the children to rest near a sea of flowers-embraced the pang in your stomach at the knowledge that they would never see it-and fashioned crosses above their heads-not out of any religious reverence (Wells was the one who believed in all that crap not you) but a need to mark what was lost, what was sacrificed. You wanted to do the same for the others who’d helped you, but you couldn’t tell them apart from the one who’d condemned your people to death.

_You hope they understand._

_Know that they can’t._

When you got to Dante’s body on day 6, you hesitated. You knew his desire for the ground, his lifelong dream, how much he had appreciated the beauty of it-and that he had, in the end, rejected the one thing that could enable him to reach it. You knew that, at first, his intention had been to help your people; that all his sins had been more the salvation of his _own_ ; and that he’d sacrificed himself and his soul for them, just like you.

But 4 of your people will never walk the earth again, and there are thousands of grounders who suffered the same.

You buried him amongst the other nameless citizens, and left his grave unmarked.

He does not deserve the flowers and a cross above his head, he does not deserve to be remembered.

He’s no better than you.    

You left Cage to the beasts of the woods, though. One day, you saw he had been hollowed out, his entrails scavenged and eyes pecked away by birds. His severed hand had been carried off some time before that. It should have satisfied you, that even in death he continued to pay for his crime, that he now more than ever resembled the monsters he’d made of people,

but all you felt, all you _feel_ is empty.

You wonder if you, too, will one day be carrion for the birds. 

Months have passed since then. Now, you visit the mountain every week, like clockwork. You steal flowers from the field, from the woods during your journey there, and offer them to the crosses. You make certain to avoid the days when Jasper visits-when two months passed, you met with Bellamy and told him where Jasper could now find Maya, if he wished to; there are always flowers on the grave beneath the large Ash tree, you take care not to disturb them when you add your own.

 Sometimes, Bellamy comes with you. Sometimes he goes by himself; you forget, sometimes, that you weren’t the only one to pull that lever. Your idea, your decision, your cross to bear-but there had been another hand on yours that day, another hand to ruin with blood.

And then there’s Monty. Sweet Monty, who you doubt has ever wanted to hurt anyone in his life; Monty, who only smiled at you sadly and gave you a hug when you told him of your plan to leave; Monty, who made it possible to pull that lever.

He doesn’t visit the graves. He never even leaves Camp Jaha. During winter, you never once saw him step outside the Mountain.

You’re worried about him. You’re worried about all of them. But you can’t be that person anymore; that person who will take them by the hand and lead them through this hell. You no longer have the strength to bear that weight. You can’t navigate through your forest of dead, can’t be sure that you won’t lead them to the slaughter, rather than to safety.

You’re not the person you once were, the kind who always tried to help everybody else. You’re not much of a person at all anymore.

Half the time you feel dead, hollowed out, drained of life’s marrow; and the other half you only wish you were.

There was a break in this, though, just a brief moment-

_kissing Lexa, being in her arms, talking with her . . ._

-just a brief respite, so very brief.

But it was _something_. It’s what you imagine living to feel like.

It was painful but it was also . . . healing. There were times you felt almost light, like the anchor in your chest was beginning to lift. And when you fell asleep, you sensed yourself there, struggling, fighting with every last reserve to break to the surface. You felt _Clarke,_ or some shadow of her.

The memory of it tantalizes you now, haunts you.

You want to feel that again.

But there are things in the way, so many things, and even without them you’re not sure you _deserve_ that relief, or to feel Clarke. You’ve killed so many, and she was one of them. Her loss should be your punishment. You have no right to gain her back.

But you want to.

You want to be Clarke again.

It’s why you’re here.

You pull your horse to a halt as you finish your ascent of the mountain, noticing the ash tree over yonder and the offering of fresh flowers.

There are cameras on every corner here-here being so close to one of the Mountain’s entrances-but you’ve specifically chosen a day when Miller’s father is on surveillance duty; he feels himself indebted to you, after saving his life, after saving his son’s, and although this usually makes you uncomfortable you decided to cash in on it for once. He’ll keep what he sees here today to himself, more importantly he’ll keep it from your mom. You’re less than eager to discover her reaction, or anyone else’s in the mountain for that matter, after finding the commander who betrayed them on their doorstep.

You’re not sure you could smooth things over before firing of weapons.

“Why did you bring me here?” Lexa asks, her eyes taking in the mounds of earth and garden of crosses. There is confusion there and maybe even a little unease.

You wet your lips.

There are so many ways to answer that but so few that you are ready to give.

You look at her, taking in the faint crease to her brow, the part of her lips that hints at a nervousness she can’t express. You remember those lips pressed against yours, so soft that first time, so sweet, and again, desperate, pained. You see the nervousness and vulnerability in her eyes as she gave her trust, and that same vulnerability before she walked away from you, beaten by a hardness you never believed you could match-until you did. You see her face as you laid together in bed, bare and offering so much-but not enough to erase the past.

“Because I need you to understand.” You take a breath. “I need you to understand why we can’t just go back to the way things were. Why being around you, _with_ you, is so hard. Why even though I want . . . _this_ , I’m not sure I can let myself have it. Not right now. Maybe not ever.”

She watches you for a moment and you know she is taking you in, digging down to the root of you and unearthing what she finds there for study; even as she considers your words so carefully. You are not surprised. She has always taken pains to give everything its due thought, especially you.

Her eyes flick to the graves and back again.

“I understand,” she says and you know that she does. There is guilt in her eyes and sadness, for you, for both of you, maybe even for those lives that have been sacrificed. But there is also respectfulness. And you know now that you could tell her that this is goodbye, that you never want to see her again, and she would not protest. She would walk away and never return, without hesitating. And she would _understand_. 

But you also know that you don’t want that.

So before you can stop yourself you reach out and take her hand. It’s warm in yours, rough, and dirt chafes against your skin. It feels real. “But I miss you. And I’m too tired to keep denying myself this.”

_And I have to believe that second chances exist. Even for people like us._

Her hand is tense in yours but she does not pull away. You feel the thrum of her pulse beneath your finger, how it’s started to race at the touch of you. Your own heart pounds to match.

You work a smile, weak but hopefully reassuring, and she swallows. You think you might even have left her speechless. In the past, the thought would have amused you, would even have drawn out a smirk, challenging, triumphant. Now though, there is only the beginnings of warmth inside your chest, the echoes of a tenderness you thought you’d lost.

It’s not much. But it’s something.

Her lips part and she hesitates. “So am I.” And she exhales like to admit this is both terrible and beautiful, a relief and a mistake. Her pulse climbs even harder and her eyes dart to your hands, to hide, maybe even to reassure herself that they are still there, clasped together. 

Her confession seems to have made her more rigid, sharp glass in your grip that could fracture at the slightest movement. 

You could ease that fear.

You consider telling her that you understand what she did, that she’d been right when she said you would have done the same-you _did_ do the same-but a spiteful part of you holds back. You aren’t ready. You don’t want to relieve Lexa of that burden, not yet. You don’t want to be alone in your suffering and guilt.

You can’t deny that there’s also a certain comfort in her fear, that you’re not the only one scared of what’s to come, what this means.

So you only squeeze her hand; right now, that’s all you’re willing to give.

And after a moment, she squeezes back.

It’s a start.

 

 

_Bellamy: Don't tell me you trust him now._

_Clarke: Trust? No. I do believe in second chances._

-   _I am Become Dead, The 100_

 

**Author's Note:**

> So how was that?  
> This series isn't finished yet (I still have more I'd like to write) but I'm back to not making any promises, so. Keep your eyes out but not your hopes up?
> 
> Also Echo's Village, Kerson, is Dickerson DC.
> 
> Translations (at least I'm hoping, my Trigedasleng's not very good):  
> Hod op. Oso nou teik yo in hir. = Stop. We do not accept you here (fig. "you are not welcome here")  
> Maunripa = Mountainkiller  
> Keryon kom Wamplei = Soul (Spirit) of Death


End file.
